Page 46 of Wolfsbane Hall #1
Celestine instructed Babette to go to her room to find the newspaper articles and also bring back her briefcase.
Yes, Lorraine had ruined Celestine’s room earlier, but after the attack, everything had returned mostly to normal, including all the books and papers strewn throughout the room.
So, within minutes, Babette was back with all the newspapers and gossip sheets.
They were all about the Ashbrooks’ history.
Babette’s letters matched almost perfectly what Celestine had discovered in the North Wing.
Celestine’s hands traced the letters and turned through them as she read aloud.
“Article 1: 1760 Duke of Breython maid found dead on Christmas Eve of an apparent suicide.
“Article 2: 1760 Marquess and twin heartbroken by Miss Margaret’s death.
“Article 3: 1893 Business tycoon embroiled in scandal at the railroads. Should he be charged with murder for the train crash?
“Article 4: 1758 The Beast of Winter, Marquess Winterly, has another fiancée mysteriously disappear.
“Article 5: 1776 The Beast of Winter Sullies Lady.
“Article 7: 1810 Young Lady Breython is caught with a dead man in her bed, and a scandal ensues.
“Article 6: 1761 The Duke of Breython and his family were mysteriously poisoned on Christmas Eve during the annual house party. Thought to be dead, the family made a miraculous recovery and is all in good health and good spirits. It is still unclear who might be responsible for the poisonings, but some believe it is the vengeful spirit of Marguerite that comes back to haunt the family, as it is precisely one year since her demise.”
All the articles related to one of the Ashbrooks’ secrets that had played out over the night, even the last one. The family was poisoned.
As if summoned by her thought, the same old nursery rhyme began to play again. The marionette dolls were once more coming to life to sing the song.
Margret, Margret hanging down. It’s cold this Winter’s mourning. Too bad and oh so sad. You caused the Marquess’s scorning.
Wait, the song was about death, but the rhyme got it wrong. The rhyme assumed that Dean was the one in love with Margot, but what if it were Everett.
Winter and Marquess referred to Dean, and all the articles about the Beast of Winter referred to his dead lovers. But what if it was never Dean? What if everything was Everett all along…
What if all the girls who were murdered or died were also really tied to Everett and not Dean? They were twins…
What if everything was always Everett? Including Wolfsbane Hall .
Celestine tore through the love letters to better understand them. What if Everett was the true murderer tonight and his brothers had helped cover it up like they always had?
If the answer to the murder led to the Specter, then it had to be Everett, because they knew James wasn’t the Specter. After all, Frances had died, and Dean was the Phantom…
So, the Specter was Everett, and perhaps the letters from Babette’s briefcase contained the truth.
She flipped through them quickly again, skimming and finding pertinent information.
Letter 1 was useless.
My Dearest M, it feels like ages since we’ve been together. My heart aches without your touch and your sweet smile…
She skimmed the rest, but there was nothing of great note. Celestine flipped to the following letter.
My Dearest E, I cannot bear this separation…
Celestine flipped the page again and again until she stopped on:
My Dearest M, I found the apothecary you suggested. It was filled with all manner of mystical objects. You may be right about the existence of the supernatural. I will write back when I have more information.
But he never wrote back. Because the date on the letter was three days before her death. The following letter was written to his mother.
Dear Mother, I will treat you in the same manner as you treated Marguerite. — Everett
Next letter:
Dear Mother, I have successfully turned your prized son and heir against you. —Everett .
Next letter:
Dearest Family, it ends tonight. I will have my vengeance. —Everett .
So Everett was the murderer.
Babette took the letters from her hands. Reading them, too. “It’s Everett,” she breathed. “It’s always been Everett.”
“Yes, but…” But it still didn’t quite fit. Because too much happened for him to have managed it alone. Why use the arrow and the knife if it was just one killer?
Why was Dean covered in blood?
What was it that Archibald said earlier? Dean was loyal to his brothers and would do anything for them. They were thick as thieves…
So, did James and Dean help murder Lorraine, too? Are they Everett’s accomplices?
Had they always been? Not just in covering up the deaths, but causing them, too? The bloody shirts, the crossbow, the knife, and the small, needle-sized prick at her neck. Three weapons. Three men being framed? It was damning evidence.
But the most obvious answer was usually the correct one.
They weren’t all being framed. They were all the killers. Celestine closed her eyes and reimagined the murder.
The lights went out, Lorraine got into a confrontation with Archibald, and Irene came to his defense, at which point Lorraine slapped Irene and tore off Archibald’s tie.
Then the men acted. Everett had stolen Vivian’s knife during the scuffle, and James shot the crossbow. The twins either took turns with the knife, or maybe only Everett used it, and Dean stood by as a sentry.
But it wasn’t only the knife. The prick on Lorraine’s neck. She’d been drugged, too. He was slowing her down during the fight. Then it slipped into place. When Dean had hugged his mother when she arrived, he lingered and slid his hand across her neck. He’d drugged her and stabbed her.
The noises, the evidence, everything made sense with that sequence of events .
“No,” Celestine said slowly. “It was all three of them.”
As each word left her mouth, the click of a gear turned. Magic filled the room—an enchantment laced into the walls, the floor, and even into Celestine’s very cells.
A full-body shiver stole over her body, and memories soaked into the room, playing out like a silent picture show. It was a ghostly image playing as if on a projector, like the new movie in theaters, The Wizard of Oz . Just like that movie, this one had color and sound.
It was a dark and stormy London night in 1761. The three Ashbrook brothers were walking down a street in Covent Garden.
Dean faced his brothers. “Are you two sure we want to do this?”
James shrugged, his typical nonchalance twirling on his face. “They killed Marguerite. They deserve our vengeance.”
“Right,” Dean scoffed. “And this idea of yours has nothing to do with the fact that they are withholding your inheritance because you want to invest in that mechanical thing.”
“It’s called a steam engine, and it is the way of the future.” James checked his pocket watch. Clicking it open and closed a couple of times in a perfect rhythm.
“The future, Dean. How can you argue with that?” Everett flashed his signature honey-sweet smile, just as false then as it was now.
“Are you sure this woman is not a witch?” Dean asked.
“Witches are dangerous; we know that. We don’t want a repeat of what happened with Great-Grandmother.
” Young Dean was brighter and had more energy.
He wasn’t the broken, dark, brooding man he had become, but he was still the exceedingly responsible one.
“Perhaps a witch is exactly what we need,” Everett said. “We should curse our mother. Curse them all.”
“Witches don’t exist.” James shook his head.
“You and I both know they do.” Everett glared at his brother. “Great-Grandmother— ”
“Was a fraud. Science exists.” His voice was solid stone, stubborn and unbudging. This woman is just going to give us a concoction that will teach our parents a lesson.”
As Dean opened the door, a bell shook above their heads, and they walked into an apothecary.
Ivy laced the ceiling, and there were shelves and shelves of corked bottles.
Weeds, herbs, and pastes lingered inside them.
Books and gadgets rested on the shelves between bottles, from clocks ticking backward to butterflies trapped in jars and an actual barn owl staring at them, watching their every move.
On one shelf, a bottle glowed with red light. Dean shuddered and said under his breath, “Are you sure she isn’t a witch?”
“Ah, the lordlings.” The Herbalist smiled with a thick knowing, her eyes cutting through all of them. The stare was so jarring that all three men shifted on their feet uncomfortably as they flicked their eyes to each other for support.
“She is expecting us?” Everett mouthed to Dean.
The Herbalist shimmied her shoulders. “Of course I am, Lord Breython. Your brother told me you wanted to kill your parents for murdering your wife.”
Everett’s head snapped to James. “You told her that?”
“Not at first.” He held out his arms as in surrender. “That came up after many, many conversations…don’t worry, I trust her.”
The Herbalist shifted a couple of bottles behind her desk before she walked out and met the men in the middle of the room.
“We have a better plan for your parents. They can be more useful alive, especially with where your bloodline stems from.” She said the last bit under her breath, and a snake of anxiety climbed the rungs of Dean’s ribcage.
“Besides, they deserve torment for what they did. Death is too easy.”
Everett raised a wary eyebrow. “What will we do instead?”
“You’re going to poison them with this.” She turned on her heel and walked to the corner, where she lifted a large red jar filled with liquid. Then she walked and placed it on the counter.
A shiver ran through Dean. He knew that jar was not in any way good.
The Herbalist—or witch—confirmed his suspicions when she said, “It will cause them to go into a coma, in which they will experience your torment. But you must ensure you also take the elixir, or it won’t work.”
Dean did not like any of it. The woman was dangerous. She was not their salvation or their solution. She was darkness. He could sense it clinging to her skin and caking her pores.
“Why?” he asked, crossing his arms.
The witch met his defiance with strength, staring him directly in the eye. “Because the magic requires an anchor—and puppet master, which you three will act as.”
“Magic?” Dean turned to his brother. “James, I think she is a witch.”
Everett nodded. “She’s definitely a witch.”
“I am beginning to believe it as well,” James said, examining the jar, but he didn’t seem horrified like Dean. No, he was intrigued. There was something deeply wrong with him.
The witch cackled and smiled as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Make sure you all get a large portion of the potion. It won’t work in small doses. I wish it did.”
The vision shifted, and the men were at a ball with their family.
Skirts twirled through the room in a choreographed waltz.
The rich elite laughed and danced, soaking up the atmosphere.
Wallflowers stood at the side of the room, their eyes tracking eligible gentlemen as they hoped they might walk up to them and ask for a spot on their dance card.
The horror that happened next played out much like the one had in the present day. There was a toast, and the family collapsed.
The scene shifted, and they were all in a hospital. The men were the first to wake, and their nurse was the Herbalist from the apothecary.
“Good morning, little lordlings.”
“What did you do to us?” James asked, his voice scratchy. His hands traced over his body, patting his arms, chest, and legs, making sure they were solid, because something felt utterly off—wrong. It was as if he were both solid and translucent at the same time.
He wasn’t corporeal anymore. Not really. It was something in between life and death. But he also wasn’t a ghost.
He was alive but also dead.
Dean rubbed his hands over his face, and in the process, he blinked out of existence, his body turning spectral.
“What the fuck?” Everett whispered. “What are you?”
“A witch.” The Herbalist’s face stretched into a crooked and rotting smile. “And not all at the same time.”
Dean reappeared and leaned over to James, muttering, “I think witches do exist, James,” continuing their conversation from before they entered the apothecary.
James nodded his response. “I think it’s a strong possibility, yes.”
“What have you done to us?” Dean glowered at the witch, his expression murderous.
She shrugged in a self-satisfied manner. “I’ve made you into immortal creatures known as Specters. Part human, part witch, part ghost. Both alive and dead, with some useful magic And since your ancestors were once witches, you will be the most powerful Specters in existence.”
“We’re what?” Everett gulped. “What powers?”
Her nose wrinkled. “You’ll find out.” She cracked her neck. “Just be happy we didn’t make you into vampires. Vile creatures, those.”
“Vampires?” Everett asked, fear coating his voice.
Dean balled his hands into fists. “Why do it?”
She laughed, a deep and sinister sound, her eyes turning black.
“Because rich lordlings will be useful to us.” Amusement lit up her face.
“Your magic feeds off manipulation, which shouldn’t be hard for young lordlings like yourself.
But be wary, because if you go without manipulating someone for too long, you will cease to exist and die. ”
James cocked his head, fairly certain the witch was lying about something, but he didn’t know what it was.